


No Rest for the Wicked

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Mental Illness, Suicidal Thoughts, instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:25:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor's mind just isn't what it used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> After all this time, the mind of a Fëanorian is a dark and dangerous place.  
> Watch out for mentions of death, mental instability, and suicidal thoughts!

Sometimes he woke in the wee hours of a morning that was barely light, heart pounding in his chest as he struggled against an enemy that had already faded with his dreams. He could only get up, then, and glide through the halls of a still and silent house, letting the cold of bare stone sink through bare flesh into a soul that was already numb.

Sometimes he would watch the sunrise from a little window. He would sit alone on the sill, long before anyone else had stirred from the embrace of a warm bed, and watch as Arien crept along the crest of the horizon, letting her lamp spill the rays of the sun across the still-sleeping earth. He had heard others talk of the beauty of a sunrise, of the splendor of the dappled light chasing the shadows from the valleys. Yet his eyes could never see the peaceful warmth of golden dawn as he watched the sun rise beyond the hills. In the flow of the light, his eyes saw only flame, streams of fire rolling out over the unwary land, and blood pooling in the water below. He would watch until the screams that echoed in his ears were too loud to bear.

Sometimes he would wander into rooms that only gathered dust, rooms that no one but he dared enter. He would let his fingers glide over wood that had cracked and strings that had broken, and he would give a wistful smile, remembering days when his hands had held not a sword, but a harp. Once, he had sat behind the great hulking thing, brushing the dust from the gilded frame with hands that barely remembered its curves. He had set calloused fingers upon strings he could no longer name, and he had plucked out a few bitter notes that hung accusingly in the air until, one by one, the strings broke in his hands and fell limp to the floor.

Sometimes he mouthed the words of songs which he’d half-forgotten, whispering the lines like a litany when the world closed around him. He hadn’t sung since they’d pulled his brother’s body from the smoldering hull of a boat. He wasn’t sure if he still knew how.

Sometimes he watched the children as they slept, their faces unworried by the cares that seemed always to plague them when they woke. He would track the smooth rise and fall of their breath and try to forget how their eyes followed him when they roused. He recognized the look, of course. He had seen it on battlefields and at the ends of swords and once, on the shores of the sea. It was easy to recognize loathing, especially when it looked so often back at him from the eyes in the mirror.

Sometimes he wondered if he ought to die. He used to think it might be nice, in those cool and quiet halls. He used to dream of it sometimes, when the world was cold and cruel and the weight of his regret too much to bear. He used to think it would be nice to see his brothers again, and that perhaps his father might not be disappointed. Yet these days he was not so sure. Somewhere in the scattered haze of slowly passing days, a worry had crept into his mind that he could not seem to shake. No more when he closed his eyes did he see the faces of his kin waiting to welcome him into Námo’s halls. There was no rest, no repose, no rebirth behind the sanctuary of his lids. No, on those nights when he dreamed, it was only of cold, and of fear, and of a night so dark it consumed his soul. When Irmo visited now, he brought only the Void.

Death, he had decided, could wait. After all, he already lived with ghosts.

Sometimes the burden of sanity was too much, on those days when the weight of his remorse threatened to crush him, and the memories stabbed in fractured pieces into every corner of his tortured mind until he could hardly stand to think. Those days he might sit alone, head cradled between his knees, whispering words that were half-entreaty, half-rebuke to the shadows that plagued the chaos of his thoughts.

Sometimes madness was a curse, but sometimes it was a refuge, and sometimes, Maglor needed to rest.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
